Accustomed to the Dark
by AbyssinianSerengeti
Summary: AU where the Charmings never put baby Emma in the wardrobe and Gold never remembered. When Henry drags his birth mother Belle into Storybrooke, her presence unleashes a new evil upon the sleepy little town - and one by one, they all fall down.
1. Something Wicked This Way Comes

_Chapter 1: Something Wicked This Way Comes_

Snow White clutched the wailing thing to her breast, that heaved and grew heavy at the thought of her child on its teat. She could but taste the cream of milk. The tangy smell of sweat and childbirth hung over their heads, her tears dripping in her mouth as she gripped the tiny thing tighter.

Charming choked out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, taking his fingers away from his hilt long enough to stroke mother and babe, before glancing around frantically as the roof continued to rain sawdust and mortar.

"Snow."

She closed her eyes at the kiss, croaking in anguish, "The wardrobe. It only takes _one_."

The castle trembled in its bones. An odour both pungent and intoxicating, like steam and decaying bodies began to filter through the stones. A desperate scream pierced their ears, the ring of metal, the crash and bang of wood and rock and bodies.

"Then we have failed," he said, despair sweeping over handsome features, tears running their haggard track down his cheeks. "At least we're together."

Snow made a sound that might pass for a whimper, lights pounding behind her eyes, limbs weighed down with a thousand broken hearts. Something large crashed against their door. She muffled her scream into Emma's blanket. The purple, prunish, perfect little miracle cried and cried, its eyes squeezed shut, still smelling of blood and other liquids. The good queen passed trembling lips over her child, "Goodbye Emma."

A scream of hinges and their blockade fell. Charming bolted to his feet, sword at his command. The dust cleared and porcelain skin behind red painted lips emerged in a gleeful smile. The reeking smoke engulfed her figure, whipping the hems of her eternal mourning into a frenzy. Her faceless soldiers in obsidian steel rattled shoulder to shoulder, pointing their poles at him, shaking in his flimsy nightshirt. His toes began to curl.

The Evil Queen raised two triumphant arms, her curse seeming to rise with her, blanketing the room in a whirlwind of darkness and debris.

"No. More. Happy. Endings."

Charming backed against the bed, his arms out, teeth bared and growling. Metal clanged with metal, the slicing of air accompanying the Evil Queen's manic cackles. Snow sobbed and clawed at the covers, too weak to help, a yelling in her ears, a horrified gargle as the dark soldiers descended upon her husband and cut him down. The castle groaned one last groan before their very world seemed to rip. A sickening shrill note, like nails scraping against a board. A ripple went through the room and left her hair on end. The unnatural tornado, the violent winds that threw the very walls against each other began to slow eat away at the ceiling, its pieces carried away like torn parchment on the wind.

Emma shrieked above it all.

The castle buckled and collapsed, its final stand come undone. Snow's last memory was of the Queen's lick of her lips, advancing upon the bed. With the smoke about to suffocate them, the dust searing her eyes, she threw back her head and roared, as the sword plunged into Emma's chest. Snow fell back onto the pillows and waited for the warm blood to flow.

None came.

As the clouds billowed about them, grasping at the edges of reality, the Evil Queen and Snow White shared a look of mutual incomprehension as Emma continued to bawl through her tiny lungs, the metal sticking out of her chest at an impossible angle, indigo poison filling her mouth and nose and ears, little eyes still stubbornly shut.

Her caterwauling cries echoed into the dark oblivion, a clear call for help. A desperate ring of hopelessness, a curse to the heavens, sounding louder and louder as all the lands were eaten and every soul consumed – rising into eternity.

XXX

Mr Gold polished the brass with slow, calculated movements. He barely noticed the chemical musk anymore than he did the darkness, or the thirst. Light splattered across his desk in tired grey patches, waiting to succumb to the night. A tinkle of bells halted his hand for a fraction of a second, but he finished the stroke regardless and knew that if a poor soul was calling at this hour, they must desperately desire his counsel, and if his counsel was desired that much, then the least they could do was wait.

Weight heavy on his cane, he walked slowly around the desk. The heavy curtains parted at his fingertips and he found himself facing a mop of tousled brown hair and cheeks buffed red and raw from the wind.

Said cheeks sucked in a whistling breath, "Mr Gold."

"Where're you hurrying off to, Henry?"

"Nowhere."

"Only running from your own shadow, then."

Henry's eyes flicked backwards towards the door and he cast a furtive glance at the suited man. Mr Gold squinted in amusement, watching the flickering shadows of mischief and guilt dance across the innocent's face. He found himself filled with an empty pang of jealousy at the simple ailment of disobeying a tyrannous mother. Hardly the sort of ghost to keep him up at night.

"What's your pleasure?" he said in his customary teasing way.

"It's only that..." Henry looked down and scuffed his grass stains across the wooden floor, clutching something large and heavy tighter to his little chest. "Well, I never really knew who you were."

Gold raised a curious eyebrow and stood as straight as he could. The angle fell into the path of a table lamp and threw a twisted shadow against the wall.

"Whatever do you mean boy," he chided, "I'm Mr Gold. Been a pawnbroker and dealer since before even your mother was born."

Large brown orbs stared up at him and Henry slowly uncurled the fingers digging into his vellum. The large object was presented to Gold as one would a precious cushion upon which some ring or crown of particular value would sit. The book smelt of wood and fire and age.

"You're not in it," he said, as if the very idea scandalised him.

"I don't exist in some fairy stories," Gold repeated.

"Yes."

"That...worries you?"

"You sound like Archie Hopper."

Gold hummed and put a hand upon the boy's shoulder. Henry recoiled instinctively from the touch. Confusion swept across the older man's features and he quickly licked his lips, feeling parched. "I'd like to help you boy, I really would, but nothing I could sell you would make me appear in that book of yours. And since selling things is the only thing I know how to do..."

"I think you wrote it!" Henry blurted out. He immediately regretted it and hugged the volume back to his chest, eyes peeking over the top of it as if waiting for Gold to pounce. The man simply held down the smile tugging at his lips and shook his head.

"Run along to your mother, Henry. I pen contracts and no more, and legal matters rarely have happy endings," he shooed the child out with a flick of his cane.

Henry stumbled backwards with a frown, "That's just the thing sir, these stories don't have happy endings."

Gold struggled to contain a roll of his eyes and noticed a stagnant cup of tea at the counter. He downed the substance in a gulp and clicked his tongue at the sudden liquid cool. "Out you go, kiddo."

"But sir! I just want to know where to find the Saviour," Henry cried, panic and desperation beating out his fear of the grumpy old man. "I _have_ to find her."

"My dear boy, what would you need a saviour for?"

"To break the Evil Queen's curse. They all do. Please Mr Gold, you own Storybrooke, you're one of the most powerful people in this town. You should have a story, like my mum, but I don't recognise you in_ any _of the pictures. You should be a king, or a sorcerer, or...or...if you don't exist, then you must have written the book! It's the only logical explanation, don't you see? You own this town, you must own the story!"

"Aye Henry, you're raving mad," Gold chuckled and held open his door with another ring of the bells. The icy wind blew inside the toasty warm store, smelling of forest and sea; Henry's hair began to dance on it, his nose already going red.

"But you must know where she is! You own every character, you must own her too!"

"Run along boy, I've got work to do."

"But – "

"Henry!"

"Ah, Madam Mayor."

"What are you doing with my son, Gold?"

"Mum it's ok."

"Be quiet Henry. Go sit in the car."

"Mum, I was only – "

"_Now_."

Gold let the door swing shut behind Henry and painted a pained smile across his face. The Mayor pursed her rouged lips, let out a huff of air and patted down her usually pristine hair. Hands racing to straighten windswept pieces of clothing, she looked the crippled man up and down and sneered.

"Stay away from my son, Mr Gold, don't go filling his head with your nonsense."

"Now that's rather unfair, ma'am," he let the soft words drip of his tongue, "Your boy has a spritely imagination, are you going to blame me for leaving him with nothing but boredom and books while you reign over this town like your own little kingdom?"

She peered closely, then with a scoff, swept away and left him standing in a kind of silence only the eternally lonely could take comfort from.

XXX

Henry sat down on the Toll Bridge with a little flutter of guilt in the pit of his stomach. He hung his legs over the sides and cradled the book in his lap, frowning slightly. Could he have been wrong about Mr Gold? Did he really not know about the curse? Was he really just as cursed as everyone else? It seemed so peculiar that powerful, frightful Mr Gold could be just as stuck in an unhappy ending as everyone else in the town.

"Hey kiddo, what's that you got there?"

Henry looked up and saw a man with dark eyes and a long trench coat. His first instinct was to run very far away and not accept any candy.

"Don't be scared," the stranger said quickly, holding out a hand, "my name's Jefferson."

"Henry."

"You're the Mayor's son."

He shrugged, "I guess."

The stranger grinned, eyes crinkling around the edges, and sat himself down beside the boy, swinging his legs off the bridge too, "You're guessing whose son you are?"

"I'm adopted," he said blankly.

Jefferson leaned in close, "Who's your real mum then?"

Henry looked up with suddenly bright eyes, "Do you know?"

It was the man's turn to shrug, "She must be 'round somewhere, everyone in Storybrooke was born in Storybrooke. No one ever comes, no one ever goes."

"What did you say?" he yelped, suddenly very interested in this new man, who only shifted his shoulders again and shook his head absentmindedly. "Do you...do you believe in the..._curse_?" Henry gasped and clasped the book closer to him. He peered at what he could see of this person, "Who _are_ you?"

Jefferson looked askance at the gawking kid, whose cheeks were pink with excitement. "Let's just say, I'm a little madder than the rest of them."

"I thought you looked familiar!" Henry hurriedly spread open the book and began to flip pages, hardly bothering not to rip them in his enthusiasm, "You're the Mad Hatter! You're from _Wonderland_!"

The man didn't reply, only stared at the water seeing nothing. He moved his hands compulsively, as if kneading an imaginary ball of dough, or grasping at something that wasn't there. Henry frowned some more, "But why do you remember, did it not work in Wonderland?"

"They say the curse of the madman is to see but never be believed," he said cryptically.

Henry rubbed the back of his head and observed the new man some more. After a long pause, he asked, "Is your daughter Paige? She's my friend."

Jefferson visibly twitched; his hands stopped mid-motion, but after a second, continued on their way. Several more seconds later, he consented in a murmur, "Yes."

"But she doesn't remember you."

"Yes."

"How horrible."

Jefferson paused again, and looked sideways at the boy with his head in his hands, "Yes. Yes it is. Are you going to do something about it, Henry Mills?"

"Can I? Tell me how I can help!" all eager and bushy tailed.

"Find a saviour."

Henry sighed a dramatic sigh, "I can't. I don't know _who_ the Saviour is."

"I didn't say, _the_ Saviour, I mean _a_ saviour. _The_ Saviour can as much as save all of us and she could herself – that is to say, not at all."

"What do you mean?"

"Her parents didn't put her in the wardrobe like they were meant to," Jefferson spat out through pressed lips. "Now she's trapped here with the rest of us."

Henry gasped, "Who is it?"

"Odette Swan. Emma Swan, actually, but here she goes by Odette."

"Etta?" Henry said confused.

A grunt of agreement but Jefferson turned to face Henry once more, earnest this time, hands still, "You must find a saviour. That's the only way to get my Grace back."

"Grace?" it took him a moment to register, "Oh Paige. I mean, Grace. But sir, if the Saviour can't save you – then doesn't that mean no one can?"

Jefferson took him by the shoulders and drilled his deep eyes into Henry's large, round, unblinking ones, "The thing about curses is – they can _always_ be broken. _Always_. We must find a way, a way that wasn't planned of course, but a way none the less. Can you do it?"

"When did it become 'we'?" Henry backed away suspiciously.

Jefferson grinned wolfishly, "Smart boy. Be cautious if you will, but I swear it's the least of _my_ intentions to harm you. Though seeing as you are the only damned soul in this town who _sees_ and I'm the only person who can give you a starting place – we may be forced to work in tangent yet, little Mills."

Henry stared at him, "What do you mean a starting place?"

"Where did you come from boy?"

"My real mum."

"Yes, but where did _she_ come from?"

"Not Storybrooke. Someplace far away."

"Ah. Ah."

Henry jumped up and approached him again, his curiosity getting the better of him. "What 'ah'?"

"Ah," Jefferson repeated just to tease him. Henry broke into a reluctant smile. "There, so you see, I'm not going to eat you."

"Yet."

"Yet," he echoed. "Find your mother, Henry Mills. Find this place far away."

"Why?"

"A hunch, kiddo, just a hunch," Jefferson got to his feet with a groan and a stretch, "Well, I must be on my way," he extended a hand and Henry hauled himself up, releasing the fingers quickly, "Still don't trust me? That's fine," he began to twist his hands again, "that's fine...that's fine..."

"Goodbye Mr Jefferson."

"Jefferson, just...Jefferson," he wandered away with a shadow of a wink, stopping his own fidgeting hands by sticking them deep into his pockets. Henry cocked his head to the side and only realised when his stranger-friend-hatter-man had gone that he hadn't thought to ask how to find a missing mother. Oh well, he would have to be resourceful. A glimmer of a smile coated his features and he ran back home, the book a comforting weight in his backpack.

XXX

Henry was very much a good boy. He tied his shoes before he went out, ate his fruit and vegies to the core and brushed his teeth the full two minutes every time. He was a clever boy too. He knew all his times tables and how to play chess and could recite all the presidents of the 20th century (though he'd sometimes forget Hoover).

Henry had dark brown hair that didn't need very much work to keep straight and presentable. He was tall for his age and was quite good at sports. So it was rather remarkable that Henry Mills was an unhappy boy. He'd never wanted for anything, never gone hungry or cold. Trouble didn't come knocking at his door very often, so if he wanted a jolt, he'd have to go chase down the excitement bus himself.

And though Henry knew he was quite a good runner, it would be very difficult for him to chase down any bus at all – especially one his mother never gave him the number of. His mother really was the root of all this brooding.

Mayor Regina Mills adored her little thing with more heart than any person could have imagined her having. She was stern but fair, firm but gentle, and gave him leave to run around with the other children so long as he didn't wander as far as Toll Bridge.

It was all very proper.

That irked Henry.

Proper would have been all and well if Storybrooke was a town where things were generally done properly. Proper meant waiting for the red lights to cross the road, and not wearing his new trousers until he'd grown into them a little. But the thing was, Henry noticed that no matter how suddenly someone ran onto the busy street, never would that car touch as much as a hair on that person's head. The hospital always had the same number of people. In fact, only Henry himself had ever gotten sick and needed tablets or something. There were never any new patients, for nary a cut or a scratch. Perhaps that little strangeness could be overlooked, but what he just could not comprehend was why_ he_ grew into clothes and needed new pairs of shoes, when none of his friends did.

Why did he get older and taller and bigger with every birthday, yet no one else seemed to change.

No one except Odette Swan.

Etta Swan was eighteen when Henry was born. She was a little lanky and a little round-faced. She liked to draw down by the river and didn't have very many friends. Etta Swan was twenty-eight now. She was no longer lanky or round-faced, but quite pretty, if Henry really thought about it (and he had a feeling Sheriff Graham thought about it quite a lot), and wore make-up, and leather jackets, and taught painting at the gallery beside the shut down library when she wasn't working at Mr Gold's shop.

That was another thing, Storybrooke library had never been open once in Henry's whole living memory – which for a him, was a very long time. A deserted library he may have come to terms with, if not a little disappointed in for he did love books, but what he really did not understand was why the big clock tower was always on 8:15. Had no one thought to fix it? He dreamed that maybe he would finish school and become a fixer of sorts, maybe work at Marco's garage. Then one day he could climb up that tower and take a look inside, maybe get the hands to turn again.

On other days, Henry wanted to be a pirate.

This and many other thoughts went through Mr Mills' head as he rode the bus into Far Away, Boston. When the bright lights and fast cars and huge buildings finally monopolised his attention, he had quite forgotten wanting to be a pirate, and thought instead that it might be a reasonable occupation to be a bus driver. For who else saw every part of the world but the people who drove the buses?

Henry alighted from his vehicle and his daydreams when he reached the address written in smudged ink on the inside of his hand. He looked up at the humble abode, walked slowly past a little house on wheels with the words 'The Gypsy Cart' and a roughly sketched picture of an exotic woman reading a thick red book and wearing bells around her neck.

He walked up the steps and had the good sense to straighten his shirt and pat down his hair a little before ringing the doorbell once very quickly.

"Can I help you?"

"Hi."

"Hi?"

"My name's Henry."

"Hi Henry. Are you lost?"

"No. Are you Annabel Everleigh?"

"...Yes?"

"Hi."

"Hi."

XXX

Belle was crying.

Not a messy sort of sobbing, filled with the agonising sound of self-pity and regret. Not the sniffling kind, as if the crier seemed too self-conscious or too embarrassed, to make a sound. No, Belle was weeping. Real and raw with tears that blinded her and marked her skin with sticky dew. Her nose ran, her throat cracked, a guttural kind of gargle would escape from between firmly pressed lips that were slowly turning blue from the cold.

Her head was held high, and she stumbled through the undergrowth as best as she could. Though her teal blue dress caught on the brambles and ripped from its seams, though the dirt and mud smeared across her flesh, though the chill of nightfall slithered under her chemise breathing frozen breath upon her – still she walked, head high. It was a hopeless dignity that she wrapped around her like a fur coat. It was an unconscious aura of respect that caused even the wildest of creatures to keep their distance.

If Belle had been less stricken, she would have heard the snapping of twigs, the whip of tiny wings, the glint of golden eyes that followed her on her path of wayward destruction. A little, self-serving, part of her invited those fearsome beasts to come feast upon her, invited the claws of the scavenger and the rancid jaw of the wolf. She was making enough noise to draw them near, for sure, but the claws and the teeth kept their distance, in an orbit around her, as moths to the lamplight, as wild dogs to the flame of a bonfire.

They drew near her distress, absorbed her pain, huddled as close as they dared to the damsel that wept as the forest grabbed mercilessly at her sleeves and skirt and reduced the dignified little thing to a flop of trembling flesh and rags.

Belle was breaking.

Birds alighted from tree to tree, staring down like cherubs, though their chirps and songs went silent. A cat of some sort padded behind, two deer leapt over logs beside her, their coasts murky brown and impossible to distinguish in the growing dusk. Somewhere ahead, a single red eye bounding up and down like a firefly's beam.

When Belle crawled into a mossy hole, her face streaked with dust and dried blood, the red dot prowled closer. It peered at her for a minute, before turning away and scampering into the darkness.

"Who is she?" the Huntsman demanded, hand at his wolf-friend's nape.

The Queen rose from her settee and waved a careless hand at a little mirror. Its reflected depths began to writhe and when the fog had cleared, it showed a pitiful picture of what could pass as a peasant girl, curled into a ball and not shaking simply because forgiving sleep had taken her away.

"Did she really not notice you?"

The Huntsman stared at the thing and grimaced. "What do you want with her?"

The woman tore her hungry eyes away and advanced on him, demanding explanation.

"I've just...never seen the wild creatures act like that. Not once, when there was a possibility of a fresh and easy kill, have I seen the forest cats and the wolflings step away," the Huntsman said slowly, "And that little girl was the freshest and easiest kill I've seen in a long time."

She twirled away from him and placed a sharp, painted nail upon the image, clawing it down the glass, as if stroking her face. "Let's just say, I'm saving her for a rainy day."

"You mean to harm her?"

The Evil Queen suddenly pushed her face up to his, snarling, "You will do as I say."

He moved backwards from her overpowering scent, "They recognise she's special."

Queen Regina blinked innocently, "Oh she is, is she?"

"They love her."

"But you do _not_!" she hissed, throwing him bodily against the far wall and returning the mirror to its normal state with a single sweep of her arm, "I have your heart Huntsman. Do as I say and I may just keep it beating."

The man inhaled slowly, gripping his wolf with a solid hand and holding the snapping, frothing thing back. The Queen chuckled, an empty, hollow sound despite its mellow, honeyed tones and perfect teeth.

"Good. Make the bitch heel," she swept over to her dresser and put fingers to temple, turning from side and admiring her own visage, "You will follow the child. Report back, periodically, of course, I can hardly be wasting my time on a speck like her."

"If she's so unimportant, let her be," the Huntsman defended again, bile of disgust forcefully swallowed.

The Queen laughed that chilling laugh again, edges embroidered in pity this time. "Go Huntsman. Don't try to protect others when you can hardly protect yourself."

It was almost midday when Belle finally crawled out of her hovel. The night, the dawn and now the baking sun had frosted, thawed and scorched any remnants of acceptable society off her being. She emerged now, as one with the earth, covered in the seeds of the forest, her scent masked. There was something less alien about her, and the creatures that had stood vigil through the night, began to draw near.

Calm, the turmoil inside her relegated to a mere simmer, Belle began to notice her surroundings and with it, her hunger. Lips cracked and head spinning, she toppled forward and nearly stepped on something brown and furry. It leapt out of reach, but after several steps, twisted its body back around and looked at her with amber eyes. Turfs of hair sprouted from the tips of its ears and the line of its jaw. Very fine whispers framed its black nose.

Belle stepped closer, strangely unafraid. The giant cat was striped along its black and spotted down its inner forelegs. Its face masked with dark contour lines, like war paint on children. A petit head sat on large, muscled shoulders, and mahogany fur extended from chin to stomach to tail.

"Have you been here all the time?" she murmured, stretching out a tentative hand. The creature stared at her wiggling fingers, and padded closer. Not close enough to touch, but enough make Belle smile. "You'll follow me?"

As if in reply, the cat stretched out its two lean front limbs and made a luxurious sound. Unlike the creamy sated purr of the housecat, this thing seemed to rumble with contentment. Then, looking at her with half-opened lids, it started to walk away.

In silent understanding, Belle followed it, for several minutes unthinking and at ease. She heard the stream before they reached it. It sounded like happiness, gurgling and rushing over smoothed pebbles in delightful mouthfuls of spring. The sunlight danced upon the surface, penetrating to the riverbed at certain angles and showing schools of little silver fish that played in the weak rapids. The cat approached the sloping embankment and took a long draught.

"Thank you," she said, hardly expecting the thing to reply. But the cat lifted its tongue from the drink and seemed to blink once in acknowledgement. Belle broke into a genuine smile, suppressed a giggle and didn't falter when she brushed past the beast and stepped bodily into the middle of the brook, watching at the dirt slid off her skin, feeling the fish tickle her calves.

"What's your name?" she called at the thing now stretched out on its side in the sun. It opened its red jaws in a long yawn. Belle looked around at their little oasis, wondering how the forest had seemed so foreboding and ruthless last night. This was a circle of safety, a slice of paradise, a simple meadow, with precious water. Peeking out of the grass, Belle felt her heart leap at the sight of dandelions, and wild leeks and, in a patch of shade, the dark green of ripe gooseberries.

"Thank you," she gasped, new tears of a different kind now jumping to her eyes. She looked at that grisly face, with its harsh, dark lines and stained teeth, a wetted tongue and ridiculous clumps of fur standing proud upon its fuzzy ears. The murky brown, oddly pattern fur, like a creature that couldn't decide if it was more tiger or more leopard, and the cognac eyes with pinprick pupils, reminded her of a certain other monster who hadn't been very good a being a monster to her at all.

"Thank you."

Cupping handfuls of water and sprinkling it over her face, washing away all past crimes, she heard the voice of her father speaking in their native tongue, as they trudged through the forests, chewing on wood sorrel to quell their thirst and looking for the telltale pebbles of a killdeer nest and its rich, speckled eggs. _Find __sé léah. Sé léah á bíféraþ._

"Find the meadow. The meadow always feeds," she whispered, eyes still closed, "I will call you Meadow. Léah, with you, I will always find léah. My Everléah."

As if in approval, the cat on the bank opened on lazy eye and began to rumble.

XXX

Mr Gold closed shop on just another late weeknight, and was just about to hobble over to his car when he spied two figures across the road, leaning against a catastrophe that dared call itself a motor vehicle. Garishly coloured an electric blue, the caravan was painted with childishly curling letters:

The Gypsy Cart

How very cute.

And how very odd. A stranger in Storybrooke. How very odd indeed. He walked carefully over to the pair and quickly realised that the little one, shifting from foot to foot was none other than the missing Henry. The taller woman was unfamiliar. Crossing the empty street, reading her features by a clear, white full moon, he saw a young woman, nearing her thirties perhaps, but that may have been a side-effect of a severe bun that pulled every hair back three times tighter than necessary.

She had her arms stubbornly crossed and a cynical smile across thin lips. A strong jaw line led to a long neck that disappeared into a black cloak, shrugged over slender shoulders. The dress underneath was the same shade of blue as her cart and donned the same sigil.

"Good even' master Henry," he said softly.

Henry looked down at his feet, "Hi Mr Gold."

"Feeling guilty now, are we?"

Henry grunted and shrugged one shoulder.

"You're not going to introduce me?"

The boy continued to evade his looks and Gold hid a small smile by fumbling with his cane, moving it to his left hand and extending the right to the woman who quietly quipped, "I expect he's run out of lies. Annabel. Pleasure's mine. You're...Gold?"

"Pawnbroker, dealer of antiquities."

"And author," Henry added under his breath.

The woman raised an eyebrow, "You dabble?"

Gold gave a single silent laugh, "Henry's a very imaginative boy."

"I'm not lying," he whined. "It's all true."

She shook her head slowly, "Henry, have you ever considered that if all stories were true, we'd be frolicking with dragons and aliens and supercomputers that control our minds?"

"Maybe they're not all real," he said uncertainly, "But these are!"

"You should get your story straight, mister. Makes it easier to keep it all in check."

"I'm not a liar!"

"No, you're just a very_ imaginative_ boy," she echoed Gold and looked up with a half-smile, "Do you know where I can drop him off?"

Gold looked at her closely. It might have been the light but he swore that her eyes were the same shade as her dress, and it made her look strangely, well he didn't quite know the word for it (and a speechless Mr Gold was a rare thing indeed). It made her look surreal.

"Regina Mills lives down my street, I can drive you," he pointed over his shoulder at a car parked around the corner.

"Even with your..." she looked unapologetically at his lame leg. Not in judgement, but as one would state that a deaf man would find it difficult to sing in tune. Mr Gold narrowed his eyes. He found that her forthrightness displeased him and stood up a little straighter.

Annabel appeared to notice the alteration and made to turn away, "No it's fine, I'll drive him."

"Nonsense," Gold scolded, "If the Mayor sees her son drive up in _that_, we'll all be condemned to witness her raves on protocol to keep out vagabonds."

Annabel and Gold stared silently at each other. One a cripple, one a vagabond. She uncrossed her arms and he relaxed back into the usual hunched stance. The truce was accepted for the present. Henry glanced between a distrustful face to a mildly agitated one, and wondered if they'd forgotten about him as the pause stretched much longer than was pleasant.

"Henry," she said finally, "You're the Mayor's son?"

He ducked his head again, "Maybe."

Gold noticed she looked conflicted for a minute, blinking rapidly and barely heard her mutter, "I guess you could've done worse."

He looked at the enigma before him and only just noticed the golden band upon her left hand. "My offer still stands." She stepped out of her daze and with a firm hand, took Henry's shoulder and pushed him in the direction of Gold's car in reply. He followed them, the usual confident stroll made slightly more hurried as they pulled further ahead.

"So Miss Annabel," Gold glanced at his passenger, "What's brought you to Storybrooke?"

"What's brought me? I'd have to say coercion with a big side of guilt." In the backseat, Henry beamed. "Right boy?"

At Gold's confusion, Henry chirped, "She's my mum."

Annabel looked stoically ahead.

"Is that right? You're Henry's birth mother."

"Be that as it may, tonight I'm just a woman who needs to get back to Boston in time for work tomorrow."

"And you...?"

"I run a library," she said quietly, looking out at the muted lights behind drawn windows. "For those who can't conceivably get to one themselves. The disabled, the elderly. Like Meals on Wheels except with books."

He huffed, "The Gypsy Cart. How fitting."

"I thought so," she muttered disinterestedly, "Is this it? Henry, your house is huge!"

But Henry had his head above the glove box, "You'll stay right?"

"And why would I do that?"

"Because I'm your son."

"No," her voice hardened, "You're the Mayor's son."

"But – "

"Henry!" A shrill female voice came running up the front path. Henry's eyes popped out of his head and he hurriedly exited the vehicle. The woman's heels clicked across to the driver's window and she double over, sticking her face inside. "Gold! Did you _abduct_ my son?"

"Hardly," the accused smirked, now this was a woman he was well-equipped to handle, "Your son absconded and I'm simply returning him to you. Your welcome."

"Absconded?"

"It means a sudden escape – "

"Yes, I know what it means," she hissed, "You make him sound like a criminal."

"Criminally bored perhaps, as I've always said."

The Mayor had obviously shed a fair few tears, for she hardly seemed the sort of woman who allowed mascara to run of its own accord, Annabel noticed. In fact, she didn't seem the sort of woman to allow anything to run of its own accord. Her very perfume seemed to match the musk of the frigid evening air, as one would match wine to meat.

Regina only then noticed the passenger, "Who're you?"

Annabel barely concealed her disparaging frown at the uncalled for hostility, "A friend of Mr Gold's."

"Oh?"

"Mhmm," she smiled sweetly, arching her eyes until they were two bridges of blue and mischief. Gold looked over at her, puzzled.

"Well, then," Regina stood straight and coughed, appearing to be cordial, "Good night."

At her withdrawal, Gold couldn't help but comment, "Friend?"

"Well, from the way her eyes seem to want to curse you into oblivion, I figured claiming to be your friend would be the thing that would annoy her the most."

"You disliked her, then," he said as they pulled off the curb.

"Her perfume," Annabel said simply. Gold's forehead creased and uncreased. Taking pity on him, she explained, "When a woman bothers to apply fresh _eau de toilette_ while apparently grieving for her missing son, that woman is about as fake as tofu crab."

"Aye?"

"_Aye_. I hate tofu crab."

"Is there a place to stay around here?" she said again, as they turned back onto the main street. Her blue caravan conspicuous beside the other white and black cars.

Mr Gold cut the engine and turned to face her. "So you decided to stay."

She sighed, "Henry lives in the freaking White House, wear's designer kids clothing, has access to vintage books that cost thousands, God knows where his mother shipped that fairytale book from, and Storybrooke is this idyllic little town where the roses in the gardens bloom in thirty different colours and families probably carve turkey, eat pudding, pull bonbons and roast their fucking chestnuts over the fire on Christmas Eve, before their kids tiptoe upstairs after setting milk and cookies out for Santa, of course. How do I compete with that?"

A wisp of curled hair had escaped her bun and fell into her eye; she sighed again and pressed her forehead against the window.

Gold squirmed uncomfortably, "Do you _want_ to compete with that?"

"I don't like _her_."

"Regina."

"Right. Regina. She..._bothers_ me, something about her makes me want to rip her fake eyelashes out and throw her head down the toilet," Annabel rubbed her forehead tiredly, "Does that make me a terrible person?"

He chuckled, "It makes you a naive little girl."

She threw her head up and glared at him.

"Ah my dear, no one goes up against the Mayor. If you stay, you'll find that out soon enough," he said sagely, "No one who has anything to lose, that's for sure."

"And you?" she asked, "She seemed genuinely scared of you."

"Scared?" he gave one of his single, silent laughs, "No. Grudgingly aware of not to underestimate me? Perhaps..." he trickled down to an ominous hiss.

She fixed an intense gaze upon him and Gold soon found himself wanting desperately to look away. Annabel proffered a hand, "Thank you Mr Gold."

He shook it, found it firm, warm and familiar. Fingers withdrawing as if shocked by some unknown current, Gold cradled his limb and peered at her. She seemed not to notice, not to have felt the charge. Then, she was gone. Shaking his head, he thought, no, he'd definitely not met her before – that riddle of a woman, who dressed like a nun, spat quick fire from her tongue, swore and drove around a bright blue van helping the lowly and spreading magic and fiction, while remaining so wilfully cynical herself.

And she left the car smelling of some sort of homely musk. He sniffed. Dandelion tea.

"Hey, Gold," said rapping at his window. He rolled it down in pleasant surprise. "You're back."

"Do _you_ think I should stay?"

He ran a tongue over his lips and bit down on it. Mr Gold had a sharp mind, and all sharp minds needed exercise. It wasn't often that he was given a new puzzle to tease out and play with. And the thing about puzzles was, they must be solved.

"Well, I think Mayor Regina Mills would be highly disappointed if you did."

And to solve them, he needed time.

XXX

You walk down Main St and happen to glance up at the clock tower. The hands have unfrozen. Curious, you think.

A far horizon begins to peek its head above the tree line, but you know it will still be several hours before daybreak. You don't mind. You're familiar with the early morning. The air feels fresh without trying to. The birds have not yet started their infuriating singing. The people still lie asleep.

You walk with new purpose today. You mustn't be late. You've asked to meet her. You keep your promises. You always keep your promises.

Suddenly you see her, standing on the shore, looking out to sea. She always did want to travel. Shame she found inner peace. Shame her Mother Superior is such an uptight, self-righteous thing.

You call out her name; she turns around and gives you one of her welcoming smiles. Then she noticed the object in your hand. Her face falls. She backs away, into the sea. The waves catch at her ankles, and she topples over. You take the object in your hand and bring it down upon her head. First the mouth to silence her, then the chest to steal her breath, then you take your time.

Hours until daybreak.

When the fun is over, you step backwards and let the salt wash out her blood and jump in the sea yourself, bathing. You throw your object out into the waves and trudge back to the sand feeling alive, feeling renewed.

The nun's body lies where you left her. You spare her only one glance. You dig into your duffel bag and take out a towel and fresh clothes. Then you swing the fishing rod over your shoulder and take out an empty bucket. A bad morning for a fish. The tide was too low, you think.

When you return home, you crawl back into bed and set an alarm in time for brunch. Oysters perhaps, and some good white wine.

XXX


	2. Murder Most Foul

_Chapter 2: Murder Most Foul_

When Mr Gold stepped into Granny's early the next morning, he expected the usual hushed silence, with fearful eyes peering over the top of their cups, sipping lips hiding scowls of bitterness and hate. Instead, the diner barely registered the warning tap of his cane, earning only a slight pause in the whispers of conversation. The oversight caused him a pang of insult. It took many years of careful planning to achieve any obscurity in such an intimate town as there's.

Only trusty Ruby took note of his appearance and hurried to fetch the usual fare.

"Ah, Miss Annabel," he said, dropping into one of the several empty seats that radiated out from her in a rough circle. That explained society's general lack of attention – they had a new novelty to amuse themselves with. No matter, he thought smugly, fear would override curiosity eventually, they would return to their silenced ways soon enough.

"Gold," she nodded at him and gave him a blank stare, "You're not frightened of me."

He threw her an insincere smile, "Nor you of I, apparently."

"Nor is anyone else."

A frown adorned his features as Ruby placed a shot of short black and half a toasted sandwich before him, retreating hurriedly towards a table of women. "They're distracted."

She grunted in agreement, "This place doesn't get many visitors."

"Any."

"I'm sorry?" she finally stopped trying to catch the eye of any other client and looked properly at companion.

"Any visitors," he took a bite of melted cheese, "Storybrooke doesn't get _any_ visitors, my dear."

"Ever?" it was her turn to frown, "What about the UPS guy?"

"We have our own postal service," said Gold, speaking daintily around his breakfast.

"What if someone breaks down on the freeway?"

"Never happens."

She snorted disbelievingly, "No wonder they're all staring."

Gold looked around and the diner gradually fell silent as he fixed them with a beady eyes. Pair after pair of guilty lenses lowered to their dishes until only the sound of munching and slurping filled the heavy air. Ruby dawdled, with nothing of business to discuss, and shamefacedly retreated back behind the counter, picking up a filthy rug and rubbing it without conviction over the still gleaming tabletop.

"Who're they?" Annabel said softly, dipping her head towards the table their waitress had recently departed. Gold shifted in his seat and gazed at the three heads of hair, hoping his pierce would transmit across the divide, hoping it made them uncomfortable. The way Mary Margaret shivered gave him hope and a small, wicked grin glinted from his teeth as he turned back around and gulped down his coffee.

"The pregnant blonde is Ashley Boyd, an extraordinarily silly girl of nineteen who spends the majority of her useless time sniffling in at the laundress'," Annabel widened her eyes at his caustic tone. "The other blonde is Miss Swan, my personal assistant who is about fifty seconds from being late to work."

She rolled her eyes, "_You're _here."

"Yes, but it's not my job to open the shop at 8am sharp, now is it?"

"I still can't see how people are supposed to be afraid of you. But I'm starting to get a very good idea of why you might be unpleasant company to be around," she muttered sarcastically with her cheek in her hand, her other fingers toying with her cold coffee then licking the brown liquid off them with a cocked eyebrow.

Gold followed the path of coffee to lips for several seconds before replying with an equally scathing, "Very astute, Miss Annabel. And here I was, thinking you'd have as much brains as Miss Boyd."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she sung, "Who's the one with her ears bright red?"

"Ah, Storybrooke's very own blushing beauty – "

"Snow White!"

Henry sidled up to their table, a sparkly grin upon his face and some form of cereal stuffed in between chipmunk cheeks. A schoolbag was swung over his back, hitched up higher than necessary, echoing a tortoise, and his hair still damp from a wet comb. "Hi Annabel!"

She quickly downed the coffee and forced a reluctant smile upon her own face, "Hey..."

"I knew you'd stay," he stated.

"Then you had much more confidence than I did," she waved over Ruby with the empty mug, "Another. And Irish it up a little, would you. Aren't you supposed to be at school?"

"Not yet," he countered with an edge of reproach. "It's too early. Besides, I have to show you the town."

"Where's your mum?"

"Working."

Gold chuckled, "You'll find that's generally the case. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an employee to scold."

Annabel watched him go with a crease between her eyes, then turned to Henry, who eagerly took the vacated seat. "Hi."

She sighed, "You can stop saying that. I know you're here. And more to the point, I know _I'm_ here...somehow."

"Yeah," he breathed out in the same awed tone, as if he couldn't believe she was sitting opposite him. His large, innocent gaze drank her up and she found herself looking uncomfortably at a spot over his head. It just so happened that she caught Gold hissing something quite fierce at the non-pregnant blonde.

"So. What do we do?" said Henry.

"_We?" _she shook her head, "Look Henry, there is no _we_, in this," she waved between them, "I just needed a night before I head back to Boston."

His little face fell and he scrutinised her carefully, "No you didn't."

She swore silently, "Why else would I stay."

"Because you like me?" he offered with a smirk that reminded her maddeningly of her own.

"I do _not_ like you," she said a little aggressively. Henry's eyes filled with sudden tears. Annabel gasped in alarm, and put an awkward hand on his shoulder. "Oh no...I didn't mean – "

"You don't like me?"

She bit her bottom lip and gave him a pained expression, "No, I just need some time. Come on, I didn't know you existed until –"

He glared at her again. She fell silent and let the hand drop from his body, acutely aware that she was not equipped to deal with tantrum's and hurt feelings this morning, nor any morning for that matter. "I said the wrong thing again, didn't I?"

Henry shrugged and slipped off the stool, about to leave.

"Wait! _Henry..._" she dumped a ten dollar note on the table and ignored the staring. Grabbing his little form, she spun him around more forcefully than necessary and saw him wince as he wriggled out of her grasp. She flexed her fingers in apology, scrunching them into fists, surprised at how soft and fragile he seemed, "Look, sweetie. I'm _not_ set out for this...motherly...thing." He gave a sad nod. She took a quick intake of breath and racked her brains for something suitable to say, "But! Um...but I'm really..._happy_...to be...to try, to be, a good..._friend_." Annabel cringed and offered up her palms in question. "A friend?"

Henry squished up his features and then beamed the brightest, cheekiest smile she'd ever seen him wear. The tears and heartache mysteriously vanishing into the tepid diner air. "Yay! Thanks, Annabel!" He wrapped two strong arms around her middle and sprung out with a high-pitched giggle. "I'll see you after school!"

Her mouth fell open as she watched his flop of hair bounce off down the street. _Damn_ that kid.

XXX

The murky interior of the store flared into existence. Miss Swan hurriedly flicked on the lights, balancing two sets of keys and her half-eaten bear claw, its sickly sweet smell out of place in the sudden onslaught of dust and wood spice. Gold followed her inside and felt the sounds of the outside world muffle and fade as they ventured father into the sanctuary. The towering cabinets and cases of trinkets seemed to welcome him in statuesque silence. His fingers found the cool glass of the unicorn mobile as it caught what flickering sunlight had managed to squeeze its way through the blinds. He flicked it and the tiny horses began to swing to the sound of a nursery tune, fairy bells playing the slow and simple rhyme.

Miss Swan dumped her bag and goodies on his counter and went around the shop, unsnapping the shutters and rolling them as high as they would go. Gold let out his breath and shook away the wisps of imagination that always seemed to engulf him in those precious few seconds between the moment he stepped into his silent store and his scatter-brained assistant let in the light. As he leant the cane carefully against a wall and settled into a well-used chair, he mourned the end of the tinkling song and watched the unicorns come to a slow stop, as they did every morning.

"Does it take an eternity to open the blinds, Miss Swan?" he barked, jolting the last of his own ghostly memories and shooing them away. "Where's the list of inventory?"

"Do you want me to go over it?" she asked, reaching for the paper bag that housed her breakfast and taking an indulgent bite, sprinkling crumbs all over his desk, not in the least affected by his short temper. "_Again_?"

He narrowed his eyes at her insubordination and thought to say something sharp. Instead, he lowered his voice and murmured, "How many books do we have?"

She looked up at the ceiling and counted on her fingers, "Sixteen maybe, I can check."

As she passed him, moving to fetch the ledger in his office, Mr Gold grabbed the cane and shoved her in the ribs. She cried out in protest, threw him a disgruntled glower and swore the rest of her way. He sat back with a purr and carelessly swiped the wayward crumbs onto the floor. Inhaling the earthy scents of the room, he took out a tin of oil, a scrap of calico and his set of antique brass.

Etta Swan gagged as she moved back into the main shop, "Seventeen books and a set of atlases, if you count those."

"Thank you very much, dearie," he said without looking at her, rubbing a speck of dirt with tender strokes, "Now, if you please, sweep away."

She looked down at where his long fingers had pointed and spied the crumbs she'd left, now on the floor and scowled. "One of these days, I'm going to quit, you just watch."

"I will await that day happy day with bated breath."

"I could get better pay at the gallery, if they'd have me full time," she muttered, dustpan in hand and on her knees.

"Yes," Mr Gold looked down on her. A sinister twang crept into his normal lilt, "But who else would be so accommodating with your little Regina Problem."

Her head snapped back and she stared at him, a mixture of fear and reserve. The set of her jaw told him she was literally holding her tongue.

"Ah yes, dearie, don't think I've forgotten about our little deal," he said so softly she needed to strain to hear. "You attend to my needs, and I shall protect you from that nasty business with our Mayor. So, if you would be so kind, after you've cleaned up that little mess. Run along to Mr Tillman's garage and tell him I have a vehicle he needs to tow."

Etta swallowed the distaste in her mouth and simply nodded, knowing her refusal or agreement was hardly of any value to her employer. Continuing to breathe through her mouth, she emptied the contents of the pan into the bin and grabbed her bag, frightening the bells above the door as she slammed it shut.

Mr Gold only blinked, took the cloth and dipped it once more in the pungent oil.

XXX

It was Everléah's warning growl that alerted Belle to a stranger approaching. Her human ears could not have detected the snap of twigs and crunch of leaves that sounded so similar to the hundreds of other forest sounds. Ducking beneath the water with only a hurried breath to sustain her, she moved behind a large rock, where the long stems of aquatic plants and a crop of pebbles formed a refuge from the intruders. The sound of her scrambling was thankfully covered by the continued bubble of the brook. From between two rocks, she saw a pair of strapped boots and some heavily muscled thighs. A third object came to rest beside the man's left leg.

A hunting rifle.

"We'll stay 'til dusk," someone else spoke in a voice that resembled the soot of a fireplace. "Move after dark."

The man with the boots spoke, a creamier sound, certainly not the refined notes of a nobleman, but rich and sating, like buttered potatoes and mead.

"Or we could flush them out now. Save us time."

"Oi, Repmuth, where's the fun in that?" the first man guffawed until the other joined in with gentle laughter. "Right you are, right you are."

In horror, Belle watched from her hideaway as the man bent to untie his boots. She saw dark hair, a stubbled chin and cheek and equally buffed arms. He ripped off both shoes and began to strip himself of his cream tights. She pressed her face to the cold rock in an attempt contain the furious flush that had risen up her features. Once again, the water hid the sound of her choked gasp. She ducked her head, modesty demanding her to avert her eyes, despite knowing that she could peek as much her heart desired.

Two heavy splashes later and she finally allowed herself to look once more. The first man had laid his gun and clothes in an unruly pile at the river's edge and was having a good time submerging himself in the cool water, eyes closed, a satisfied smile gracing the curve of lips that disappeared into an unkempt moustache.

The second swam up to the first and splashed his content partner with a playful wave. A boyish battle ensued and Belle found herself smiling at the scene, recalling with a nostalgic jolt, at watching the boys of her village playing naked around the well in the hottest days of summer. Of course, back home, they had been children, barely babes, and were endowed with nothing to blush about.

The thought of home brought stinging tears to her eyes. To stop the influx of grief, she forced herself to picture a roaring waterfall of white foam. Something passionate, full of unadulterated feeling, gushing and flooding, shaping the earth, forming the very rock of ages. Flecks of spray would speckle the branches brave enough to lean close to the fury. The air would be sprinkled with droplets of the torrent, swept up by the wind.

Belle had never seen a real waterfall, but she'd read about them in books of geography, and imagined such a creature somewhere far off, where the valley towered into mountains. She knew that this calm spring was merely a trickle of something much grander, much greater.

Once, she had touched something grand and great. Just a flicker of light in the darkness, a brush against someone who had power rippling beneath his very fingertips, who controlled all and everyone. Her dear Papa and his humble fiefdom were but a stream to that man's waterfall.

Now Belle's eyes were inundated with this new thought. She'd have thought her tears would have dried by now, how many more must she shed over him?

"We'll be in the Dale before moonrise," the silkier voice roused her from her dreams.

Belle put her eye to the gap and peered at them closer, now that the initial dismay at their lack of attire had dulled. They spoke without the familiar sound of her nation, and though common sense told her she was miles from her village, she had hoped that she could have shadowed their footsteps home. Yet, all was not lost, they were strangers to her land, sure, but they were not strangers to the forest. They knew of a place nearby where there must certainly be food and beds, and that really was the next best thing.

Settling in more comfortably in the water, Belle turned her back on the men still bathing and had to bite back a scream. She saw the beast with the single red eye. The sunshine that drenched her in its glow could not pierce the shadows of the ancient spruce and pine. Just past the perimeter of her little oasis, the monsters of the forest encroached once more.

The wolf, she saw, was more white than black, and it hadn't taken her throat between its teeth, which must be a point in her favour.

Belle attempted to quell the panic in her belly. She could hardly run, not with her dress soaked through (and even if she'd bothered to remove it before her wash, she couldn't have stepped back into the torn and tattered thing, or she'd freeze to death as soon as she reached the shadows of the trees). She could hardly scream, for she wasn't quite so brave as to risk her virtue with those two well-built men and their rifles. Even if they saved her instead of fleeing themselves, how could she be sure they wouldn't ask something unspeakable as their price for saving her life?

And was her life in danger at all?

The creature was merely observing her. Such a human gaze in its unnatural eyes, it seemed more of a domestic pet than a bloodthirsty thing of the wilds. Her trembling ceased and she watched it watching her, only just noticing that the sounds of thoughtless freedom had quietened. The joyous splashing of the men now seemed foolishly out of place. Where the songbirds and invisible insects could sense danger, the humans felt nothing.

Generations of built civilisation, just outside the edges of the wilderness, had dulled our senses, Belle mulled, her head beginning to hurt as she fought the urge to blink. She feared closing her eyes for even a second, feared that if she did, it would launch itself at her and she would be dead. An unfounded fear, she knew, for even if she was staring it down, a leaping wolf would overpower her in an instant. Her lifeless body would forever taint the little stream with unsightly blood and innards.

That thought made her sadder than the possibility of being ripped into like a rag doll.

"Repmuth," the gruff voice said, a note of alarm, "_Look_."

Belle didn't dare turn back around. She prayed they wouldn't want a better look and decide to venture near her hiding spot. To her dismay, she felt waves on the surface ripple towards her. Someone was coming. Sucking in a painfully deep breath, she ducked beneath the water and shuddered from the pressure upon her lungs and the pounding fear in her heart as the lower body of a man, oh, very _much_ a man, came very near her.

It felt an hour, the searing pain forcing her lids closed, as she focused her core on releasing her last breath in tiny increments. She needed to breathe. Desperately, needed to breathe. Peeling her eyes open, she watched in relief as the legs retreated in what seemed to be a hurry. She emerged in a huff, inhaling glorious mouthfuls of air, liquid streaming off her hair and eyes, coughing and spluttering and coughing some more.

When breathing ceased to give her pain, she looked through the rocks and saw the men had disappeared, their possessions gone also. Only then, did Belle register, with a horrified hand to her mouth, that she had turned her back to the red-eyed wolf. Sensing its presence uncomfortably near, smelling the rank flesh upon its breath wafting towards her, she dared not turn around and face her fate.

"You were down there too long."

She screamed.

The sound choked through her fingers as she whirled around to face the huge creature on the banks, towering over her huddled form. She screamed again as it opened its jaws and squeezed her eyes closed. But the thing never attacked, only seemed to yawn tiredly, as if it was very bored of the uninteresting thing that simply cowered in the water and didn't do much.

Unable to tear her eyes away from stained teeth, Belle hardly noticed the man beside it.

"Do you need a hand?"

She licked the inside of her mouth and lips, making them moist once more, and could not form a coherent word.

"The poor darling's in shock," said another voice, as honeyed as she remembered it. As melodic and mocking, and all things false, as that fateful day on the road back from town.

Belle turned to the Evil Queen and gaped, her arms hurrying to cover her shame, knowing that her dress was most certainly transparent. But before she could stutter an apology for her deplorable state, she felt herself lifted into the air on a mist of purple, then deposited gently upon the bank, all dry and comfortable in her old dress.

"There," the Queen said, almost lovingly, "All better. Are you warm?"

She looked down on herself and touched the fabric, not quite believing its existence. She tangled a hand up into her hair and felt it was dripping.

"Let me," the Queen waved a hand and more of the mist covered her head, leaving her dry to the bone. Her fingers found it wrung out and loosely curled. Two braids ran from her temples to be tied at the back in her usual style. She would have opened her mouth to say thanks but the onslaught of magic left her reeling, a dull ache manifesting itself somewhere behind her eyes. Her feet took two shaken steps backwards of their own accord and she swayed.

Something strong and warm caught her and set her down in a patch of clover, "There milady," the man said. Belle jumped from his embrace and he stepped back with a bow, immediately returning to decorum.

The Queen knelt down, her laced bosom heaving in a sort of excitement, "You are _very_ untouched by magic, aren't you dear?"

Belle did not comprehend.

"Oh yes, of course you're just the most innocent little dove," the Queen smiled her perfect smile and ran a hand through her curls. Belle felt curiously violated at the touch and couldn't help the discomfort showing in the tensing over her shoulders and the thinning of her lips. The Evil Queen stood up abruptly, angered by the girl's instinctive revulsion to her touch, "Those two men you were so wantonly staring at will be half a day's walk away by now. You may attempt to pursue them, they will lead you to a hamlet some way further down in the valley, near the mines. Or, you may come with me, and I will take you home in an instant."

Belle looked up at the Queen and felt her stomach squirm. The man beside her refused to meet her eye. Even the tame wolf seemed to avoid her as she looked to them for answers. Something in her warned her against this woman. This woman who Rumplestiltskin had so loathed, had so distrusted, had accused her of working with.

"You told me," Belle cleared her throat, "You told me that true love's kiss would break any curse."

The woman raised two sculpted eyebrows, "I did."

"Why?" she said, unable to help the accusatory tone.

The Queen laughed elegantly, "Why? Because it was the truth, darling."

"Please don't call me that," Belle said quickly, "I'm not a child."

The royal narrowed her eyes impossibly thin, "Of course not. Not anymore at any rate."

"What?"

"It will be what everyone will think, Belle."

"Think what?" she demanded, getting shakily to her feet.

The Evil Queen studied her nails absentmindedly, "That he took you in the night, of course."

"Took...took me?"

"Stole your virtue," the woman said slowly, relishing the thought, her eyes bright and dark, "Defiled you!"

Belle stumbled backwards, aghast, "We didn't! He would never – "

"You think you know _Rumplestiltskin_?" the Queen marched forward, "Oh _darling_, you are a silly girl, and a child. Only someone as foolish as that could fall for Rumplestiltskin's lies. He tricked you!"

"No."

"Oh?" the Queen widened her eyes, now impossibly large and childlike, "Do you think I don't know every foul deed, every wicked thought, every beastly action that he has ever performed? Do you think I don't watch he skin grow harder, his teeth grow blacker, his eyes grow thinner, every time he kills a man, steals a baby, dries a well, robs a family of their crops with drought and plague?"

"You're lying," Belle said, her voice wavering as she recalled the stories of the Dark One, the stories she had carefully forgotten. "Those are nursery tales to scare children into staying inside after dark!"

"Are they?" the Queen drawled. "If you're so sure, then why did you run away?"

"I didn't run away!" said Belle, "He made me...he told me to..."

The Queen smiled triumphantly as Belle's eyes dropped to the ground, her shoulders folding forwards as a wave of hurt broke over her. "He forced you away. He exiled you to the mercy of the cold, hard nights."

The Queen's voice was just as hard as those nights had been, hard as flint, as uncaring as the world had been to her. Belle nodded slowly.

"He sent you on your way, without even a basket of food. Without even a map to show you the nearest villages. Without a penny, though he spins straw to gold," the Queen punctuated every sin with a step nearer to the girl who had stopped trying to move away. "And you still _defend_ this monster? My dear, you must have an angel's heart."

She shook her head helplessly as the Queen reached a finger under her cheek and lifted her cheeks skyward, "Come to my castle and rest. There, you will find luxury beyond your dreams, a warm hearth, a filling meal, a bath to wash away," she traced the path of a single tear, "your pain."

"My father?"

"You may be my guest so long as you like," the Queen's voice had dropped to a low murmur, a kitten's purr, stroking her exhaustion and her desperation with slow caresses, "And when you decide to be on your way, I will magic you to your father's door. Or if you should wish to travel without magical means, I will give you an armful of fruits, my safest mount, and an armed guard to chaperone you down my roads. Belle, dear child, my dear, lost, little child – won't you come home with me?"

Belle looked past the woman's eyes, to the darkening sky, felt the sun begin to fade, and very nearly succumbed to the tantalising tale. A movement at the corner of her eye brought her crashing back to reality and she disentangled herself from the Queen's hands, staring at the witch with a sickened expression.

"Never."

The Evil Queen seemed to summon a rogue wind. The sky fell overcast, the river began to writhe. "Insolent girl!"

The movement in the undergrowth increased, and Belle held out a steady hand to the thing. The giant cat emerged, its tufts of hair as ridiculous as ever, but the fur upon its back was raised, its hackles trembling in the direction of the Queen. Its jaws were bared. It came to Belle's side, she moved her hands between its ears and the creature seemed to relax into her touch. She felt that she could command anything of her new friend and it would execute them to the word.

The Queen cackled, "You think a kitten will frighten me? Huntsman."

The man beside her gave Belle a look full of emotion. He seemed to be pleading with her to accept the Queen's offer. But she knew that she had reached the point of no return. The wind picked up speed. The stream, so inviting and peaceful one minute, was now grey and violent with untold evils. A spear of light shattered the sky. The very air began to cackle with energy. She felt the world would explode.

"Huntsman!"

The man who had caught her when she'd faltered, whose eyes spoke of a gentleness, a respect that all the Queen's sugar-coated words could never have achieved, mouthed a single word: 'Sorry'. Then with an almost inhuman bark of command, his hand came down on the wolf's back and the ferocious thing charged.

Belle barely had time to scream when something huge barricaded into the wolf mid-flight, and almost skewered the dog with two colossal antlers of sharpened bone. The stag stood as tall as Belle, double the size of Everléah, its grey-brown coat rendering it completely incognito when it had stood in the growing silhouettes of dusk.

"Kill the deer!" the Queen ordered the wolf, but the whimpering pup had eyes only for its master, who commanded it back to his wide. "Huntsman! I say, _kill the deer_!"

The Huntsman stared at the giant buck, the giant cat and the tiny girl who could only just be seen in a wisp of blue and white dress. "I will not fight the forest."

"You're not fighting the forest, it's just a mad deer and a pet cat!" the Queen shrieked, her hysteria turning the storm to a blizzard. Snow began to fall in swirls of white.

The Huntsman growled, like an animal himself, "Are you so blind, woman, that you cannot see they have taken her up as one of their own?"

The Evil Queen screamed, and a bolt of lightning stabbed the Huntsman in the chest, throwing him back into the tumultuous water. The witch descended upon the wolf and threw the injured creature to the side, it yelped in pain, as she advanced upon the man, struggling to stay afloat in the stream. Belle wanted to rush forward, thank him for defending. But no, Everléah tugged at her hand and she knew that her time to fly was now or never.

The cat moved from under her hand, disappearing into the tree line, the stag had fled long ago. Even the dandelion heads had been blown bare, as their stems drowned in the snow. Sparing one last stricken look at her merciful huntsman, Belle lifted her newly restored skirts and dashed into the trees, following the near-silent footsteps of her feline friend, swallowing over and over to erase the burning of guilt and sorrow that had taken root inside her heart.

XXX

Annabel was sitting on the steps of Mr Gold's front porch with her head in between her knees when he finally came strolling up to the door with a wry grin upon his face.

"What possessed you to tow my caravan to your front door?" she asked without removing her head from her hands.

"A lovely evening to you too, Miss Bel," he jiggled the key in the door and held it open for her. She looked up with a complexion they may have been fiery if the exhaustion wasn't taunt upon her face. "Careful my dear, bitterness adds ten years."

"You're only eighteen?" she retorted, "You've been bitter _that_ long?"

"That tongue," he clucked, "One day, someone's going to bite it off."

She shook her cloak off in the hallway and stared around at the dim, dark place, "Let's just hope it's in a drunk-addled stupor with someone's hands down my shirt. You live here?"

Gold waved her deeper inside, "Evidently."

"Are you a vampire?"

"Questionable," he shrugged off his suit jacket and swung it over the banister of a grand red oak staircase, "Do you take it with milk?"

"And sugar, please."

"One would have thought salt," he smiled coolly.

"Very funny," she returned an equally sardonic smirk, following him into a vintage-style kitchen. He pointed to a cabinet which she opened to find an exquisitely delicate porcelain tea set. "You don't need to get out the good china for me, Gold. After all, I'm really only here because I _have no other choice_. Which brings us back to why you stole my vehicle."

He leaned against the bench as the kettle boiled, "No stealing took place, nothing of the kind at all. You parked in a no parking area, I saved you from a hefty fine. I believe thanks are in order."

"I think," she mused, hands playing with the tea set, "when you were a child, you would take other kid's toys in the playground without them realising, and then return it to them just to hear them say nice things to you. Which, you know, explains a lot."

"And you, Miss Bel, spent the morning wandering up and down Main St, avoiding my storefront, and made conversation with no one because you were too afraid to talk. Have you always been so cripplingly shy?"

She frowned and squeezed the china much harder than needed, "At least I'm not an actual cripple."

Mr Gold smiled devilishly, "I'm glad. Otherwise I would have been starved of that jaw-droppingly elegant display of you chasing the tow-truck and screaming profanities at it until your pretty little bun fell out and you tripped over a fire hydrant."

Annabel moved a self-conscious hand to her disorderly locks, "I despise you."

Gold watched her turn on her heels and storm out. He casually poured the tea and a pitcher of milk. "On that point, I think we are perfectly in synch," he said, meeting her in the corridor and turning into a little side salon that had obviously not been used in years. "Help yourself."

"You won't even serve me tea," she muttered.

"But my dear, you would criticise anything I do regardless," Gold mixed in his own cubes of sugar, "I'm simply saving myself the trouble of hearing your forced insults."

Annabel sat back and studied him, "Do you have cat?"

"I'm sorry?"

She discerned the troubled expression on his face, took pride in knowing she had halted his momentum and poured a generous amount of milk into her little cup. "You seem like the type to own a cat, or two."

"Really..."

"Mhmm," she raised the cup to her lips, then noticed an unsightly chip on its rim, holding it up to Gold's eye line, "You should take better care of your things, Mr Gold."

He stared for a long moment, then shrugged, "It's only a cup."

"I could cut myself."

"Be my guest."

"I take that back, you don't seem like the type to have a cat at all," she corrected, running a hand subconsciously through her ringlets and smoothing them out, "I don't think you'd know how to share your insufferable life with anything."

Gold sipped noisily, "I did have two fish once."

"Once?"

"Yes," he gestured towards an empty aquarium in the corner of the darkened room. Annabel set down her hot cup and walked towards it, fingers still combing. Tacky pet store plastic water plants and even a stone archway lay inside, covered in a layer of grey dust. "What happened to them?" she asked for conversation's sake, and turned her attention instead to the heavy curtains that kept out all the light. They seemed to be nailed into the wall.

"There was Kida, an electric blue fighting fish," his voice came wistfully from the sofa, "What _are _you doing?"

She ignored the question and continued to tug at the curtains, ripping them from their bonds, "What was the other one called?"

Gold shook his head and sat back again, watching her progress with one eye and blowing on his cup, "Nemo. A clownfish. Tiny thing."

A loud ripping sound came from the window, the curtains fell to the floor and the afternoon light streamed inside. Gold watched the bits of dust floating in the air catch the rays, following their lazy paths towards the window. Annabel shook out her straightened curls with a flip of her head and he found himself unconsciously considering the golden streaks that played on her tresses to be remarkably fine.

"What happened?" she seemed to have repeated the question.

He stirred himself, and looked at the empty glass container in the corner, "I put them in the same fishbowl."

Annabel made a derogatory sound and returned to the seat opposite him, feeling the temperature of the cup with her tongue, and finding it suitable, downed the whole thing in two gulps, smacking her lips in appreciation and looking around the new room. "So Nemo died a brutal death. And Kida?"

"She was punished for her actions," Gold said in amusement, at Annabel's questioning, he replied, "I didn't feed her for a few days."

"So that settles it," said she, "you really don't have a heart."

"She was weak," he finished his own cup, "And my heart's fine thank you very much, it trudges along quite well."

Annabel scoffed and muttered something under her breath. Gold only poured another and pointed out onto the street where her Gypsy Cart sat. "Did you spend a pleasant night in there?"

"What makes you think I slept in my library?" she said with a little embarrassment.

"The general state of disrepair I found you in this morning, my dear. You may not think I have much of a lover's organ, but surely we cannot begrudge me a pair of eyes."

At her little flush of anger and mortification, he pressed, "Do you have a change of clothes?"

"I can get them sent," she said stiffly, "Then maybe you'll see what an outsider looks like."

"Oh, I know exactly what an outsider looks like," Gold looked her up and down rather shamelessly, "a cross between a nun and Mary Poppins. Wherever did you get that cloak of yours? Is there a carpetbag I should be afraid of?"

Annabel felt an overwhelming urge to knock the teacup into his teeth and wipe that smug, self-assured sneer off his face. He steals her vehicle, insults her image and stomps all over her fashion sense – no wonder the man was alone, unmarried and childless. She wanted to strangle him with her own hair. Porphyria be damned, if that superior bastard said anything else, she would crucify him using the banister of his oh-so-grand staircase that probably cost more than her entire home.

"Bitterness, my dear," he piped, "I've warned you against its consequences."

"You son of – "

A ringing sounded in her head, but Mr Gold seemed to hear it too. No, it wasn't the high-pitched shrill of anger, but the very real peal of the telephone. He rose, grasping for his cane, and stepped unsteadily into the hallway, picking up the receiver to an antique telephone, one where you had to spin the dial.

"Yes, ah Mayor Mills how – of course not. I must say I don't care for your insinuating – yes, did you think I would? – what? – not the faintest idea – now why would I do such a reckless thing? – certainly, if you wish it – say please, now let's be a good dear," Gold said in varying tones of surprise, anger and mockery.

Annabel could see from the look on his face that all was not well. "What's up?"

"A town meeting," he said, walking quickly to his suit jacket and grabbing his keys. "You should come."

"Don't trust me alone in your house, do you?"

"Actually," he said between thin lips, "You would be interested. After all, nothing like this happened before you came."

"What?" she said, greatly disliking his accusation, whatever it may have been.

"Murder, Miss Annabel," he manoeuvred the front steps.

"So some things _are_ too much, even for you," said muttered as they got in his car pulled away from the curb. She watched in amazement as the still and seemingly barren houses down the road, emptied of their inhabitants and headed towards one single building. All day she'd spent in this bizarre little town and saw not more than a dozen souls. Now, it seemed a whole city must reside here, as cars passed them, for the first time having to stop in traffic.

"Aye, my dear," Mr Gold said quietly, "Even I don't kill nuns."

XXX

You walk into the town hall, a seething mass of bodies. The true size of Storybrooke rearing its ugly head, a whole universe squeezed into one backwater little community. How frenzied they all looked, though few were truly frightened. There was a morbid curiosity in the whole business. Funny how a little murder could uncover the sadistic nature of humanity. You watch in amusement as they peer at each other, wondering if the killer was among them. Wondering, incessantly, wondering.

You give a casual nod to several passerbies.

There's Ariel, or Serena as she calls herself now, rubbing her hands together in an effort to keep warm, and her wheelchair parked at the end of a row of plastic chairs. Over by the tea and coffee table Princess Abigail balances two foam cups, passes Gepetto and Mother Superior, and carefully hands one to her paraplegic friend. In a cluster near the front huddle the grieving sisters of the convent. How Quakerish they all seemed in heavy wool stockings and starched shirts.

A fair punishment for always hoarding their precious fairy dust, you grin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats," Sidney Glass calls for order at the podium. The microphone lets out a squeal of disapproval and the crowds wince. He taps it a few times and produces an awkward, phlegmy cough, "Erm...please take a seat, we'll be starting shortly."

It's almost a festive ambience, you think, settling yourself in an aisle seat near the front; you want to see Queen Regina's face. Shortened pieces of conversation float towards you: 'she was stabbed', 'she was drowned', 'she was found naked', 'she died with a smile on her face', 'it was a jealous sister', 'it was a secret lover', 'how horrible', 'how interesting', 'if they find the killer, will there be a hanging?'

A giant game of Chinese whispers, incessant whispering. Pongo sniffs at your feet and you stroke a fine hand through his fur as he places a messy kiss upon your palm.

"Sorry," Jiminy Cricket says, flushed and breathless, he looks distractedly through you, carrying a handful of files and pulls his Dalmatian away.

"Archie," Snow White comes up, her round, pudgy face contorted in worry, "Are you alright? I can't imagine having to profile on this case."

"Oh," he gulps, "It's...it's all in a day's work Miss Blanchard. Really," he waved away her hovering hands away, "Don't trouble yourself over me. Although, have you seen the Sheriff? I have the documents."

You glance curiously at the manila folders and make a mental note to see to their contents sometime in the near future. They needed to be edited.

As the town deposits itself into the seats, the mayor saunters toward your area with a generous smile. "We'll be starting in just a bit, thanks for your patience," she brushes away several curious questions and looks around, all obliging and courteous. Her eyes land on you and, try as you might, you fail to quell the look of glee you know is shining upon your face. She tilts her head to the side with an enquiring twist of her lips, "I'm sorry, but what was your name again?"

XXX


End file.
